Thief in the Night
by thatmasquedgirl
Summary: Alternate Universe. *Every story begins somewhere, usually with a shared look from across the room and the exchange of names. Theirs starts with an intruder and a set of cufflinks.* Yet another way Oliver and Felicity could have met. A gift!fic for all of my readers. Thank you for Technical Assistance's 14,000 hits on AO3 and 350 reviews on FanFiction! Complete.


**Title: Thief in the Night  
Word Count: 7438**

**Notes: **I hate my brain, I do. I started working on this last week, and I just couldn't write enough of it. :P And it's been torturing me ever since, so it was time for me to finish it and post it. And all the love on TA provided me with a nice excuse to finish it and get it out of my head. :P And I should probably warn you that I used this fic to get through my Season 2 finale feels. Prepare for some flashbacks. :P Anyway, telling me I'm weird is appreciated, as are any more comments/reviews you have. If not, thanks for reading! :)

* * *

It's just after four when the thunderclap wakes Oliver, and he bolts upright instantly. Then he groans because he spent all night with Tommy—and maybe a few pretty models who _aren't_ his girlfriend, Laurel—and he's already starting to feel that hangover coming on. But Tommy decided it was a good night to celebrate Oliver's last weekend in Starling for a while; _The Queen's Gambit_ leaves out in three days' time, and Oliver is supposed to be on it. He's still trying to convince Sara to go with him for some extra company, but he's not sure how that will go.

He expects to see nothing but dark room, but then he sees motion out of the corner of his eye. He thinks it's probably just a shadow, but then he sees the rain making a puddle in his carpet by the open window, and he realizes the movement is a _person_. His first instinct should probably be to yell for security, but the thief seems intent in taking only his cufflinks, and, well, he has enough to spare. Then an errant lightning strike lights up the room, he realizes his thief is female. Brunette tresses fall down her back and curl at the ends, and she's dressed all in black with a black mask covering half of her face, from forehead to her cheekbones.

Hesitant to lend his voice to the night, he finally says, his voice coming out in in a rasp, "Just leave the ones with the emeralds." She whirls, startled, but not startled enough to drop the cufflinks she's trying to steal. "My dad gave them to me—they were my first set." He waves his hands. "If you leave those, I won't call for security."

He doesn't know why he's being so merciful; usually he wouldn't hesitate. It doesn't have anything to do with wanting her to be grateful, with wanting her at his mercy. He just genuinely doesn't see the need to call the cops. He can tell by her figure that she's young, and her clothes are small, but even still they're loose on her frame, as if she hasn't eaten near as much as she should have. And, well, he has a few thousand dollars' worth of cufflinks in his dresser for a handful of suits, so it's not like it matters to him. Besides, a thousand dollars is like a drop of water in the ocean to his family, so he can easily go out and buy more if he needs to.

She doesn't say anything, but he does watch her set a pair back down on the dresser. She sprints to the window, balancing her stiletto heels on the frame. "Goodnight, Oliver," she says in a quiet tone, her voice mostly masked by the clap of thunder. Then she's gone, leaving him to turn over in bed. The last thing he thinks is how no one ever calls him "Oliver"—it's always just "Ollie," except when his parents are talking to him—and he rather likes the ring of that when it's someone his age saying it. By the time he dreams through the night, he's almost able to convince himself it didn't happen.

But, the next morning, the emerald-and-silver cufflinks on top of his dresser remind him that it wasn't just a dream.

* * *

Oliver fakes a smile as he steps into the club scene for the first time in five years, all the while wishing he was somewhere else. But Tommy has insisted, so here he is. The club is a new one to him, and it's known to be the hotspot of the idle rich and famous. According to Tommy, their "thing" is that they do masquerade nights, where the girls and guys dress up in masks to add a flair of mystery and anonymity to the crowd. Apparently, Oliver thinks wryly, all the other good gimmicks were taken.

Even though it's not a masquerade night, some of the patrons have still opted for masks. Most of the staff members are wearing simple black mask affairs, but the guests seem to prefer the more glamorous and expensive. Some of them have feathers and plumes, and there are more colors in the room than Oliver has ever seen in his life.

He takes two steps toward a booth—through the dance floor, unfortunately—before he catches the eye of a few women. They try to entice his attention by dancing suggestively, and flashing coy looks at him, but the last thing he's interested in is a woman on his arm—especially any as vapid as these. It was the kind of attention he enjoyed five years ago, but Oliver isn't the same man since the island. He's known pain, suffering, and his own personal version of Hell. And, while this might be a fun five minutes of his life, the entire club scene distracts from his work as the green-hooded Vigilante that Starling City has learned to fear. This is a distraction, and his real life will begin as soon as Tommy can find a girl to follow home, leaving Oliver to slip off into the night.

A blonde in a mask knocks her shoulder against his, and she distracts him for a moment because she's different even than the women he's seen here. Her hair curls at the ends, worn long but pulled away from her face. Her dress starts with a halter around her elegant neck with sequined straps. It's a vibrant sapphire blue, with two sequined peacock feathers across the bodice of her dress, curling in opposite directions. It isn't particularly short, compared with the rest of this crowd, but the band of blue fabric across her hips turns into a collection of printed peacock feathers that falls to her knees. But the slit up the right side doesn't stop until her thigh, and it doesn't take Oliver long to realize he's not the only man in the room staring. Her mask almost splits her face vertically, blue with black edging. It makes a circle around her right eye haphazardly, but would cover the left side of her face if not for the way it pulls away from her mouth. And a set of peacock feathers stick out of the side.

She affirms she's just like the rest when she drapes her arm through his, pulling herself flush against his side suggestively. "Hey, stranger," she says in a rich, inviting tone, and Oliver has to focus for a moment because he can feel his fingers brushing against that slit in her dress. Before he can react, though, she turns that fuchsia painted smile on him, and she steps around him, allowing him to watch her walk away. The back of her dress would be open except for the X-shape made by more of the blue, sequined straps holding it together, and she sways her hips like only a woman who knows a man is watching can. He's mesmerized, and it's ridiculous because he's seen any number of women like her in the past. To be honest, she probably isn't as stunning as half of the women in the club, but it's not beauty—it's _charisma_. He takes a moment to rub his wrist, staring after her in awe.

And it's only then that he realizes his Rolex is missing.

It takes him a surprisingly long moment to realize he got played. The dress, the flirting, the swagger—all designed to draw him in. The dress and the attitude served as the bait, and he didn't realize there was a fisherman waiting at the end for the catch. Letting his temper get the best of him, he stomps back toward where she lingers around another unsuspecting fish, toward the edge of the dance floor.

As soon as she walks away from him, Oliver seizes her by the wrist, pushing her up against the wall and leaning over her with his hands on her shoulders. Two very startled blue eyes focus on him for a moment before the other mask falls into place with a practiced smile, but now Oliver knows it to be predatory. "See something you like, stranger?" she asks him flirtatiously, one of her hands falling on his wrist, while the other presses against his chest.

"I did," he agrees, flashing her his own fake smile. And then, over the blaring music in the club, he leans in and growls, "My watch. And I want it back." He honestly shouldn't be making such a big deal of it, but it's his father's watch—the first Rolex he ever owned. So it means something to Oliver, and he won't let her get away with making him look like a fool.

Her entire demeanor changes instantly, and she holds up a sterling silver cufflink with an emerald stone in it. It takes him a moment to recognize it, and then he pulls away from her to examine his wrist. Sure enough, his is missing. She stares at it casually while commenting, "So the stories _are_ true—you've changed." Her voice is different now that the false air of seduction is gone, though just as alluring. There's no flirting, and she speaks an entire octave higher than before. "I never thought I'd say this, Mr. Queen, but I think I liked you better five years ago." She examines the stone. "Five karat. That's nice. I'm glad you didn't take _those_ with you. I didn't give them back so that they could end up at the bottom of the ocean."

It's then that he makes the connection. "I think I liked you better as a brunette," he retorts, before snatching back his cufflink and fastening it back in place. It's hard to believe the girl that stole his cufflinks five years ago would end up at the same place as him, but it's a pleasant surprise. Though he doubts that anyone would be thrilled to meet a thief again.

She seems genuinely surprised by the statement. "Well," she says flatly. "I didn't expect you to remember me." She waves her arms her words picking up speed as she continues, "I mean, I wasn't particularly memorable, not that you have a horrible memory. But, if you _do_ have a horrible memory, well, no one can blame you. Because 'deserted on an island for five years' is on the list of valid excuses for memory loss." She groans. "But I don't think you caught up to me so that you could listen to me babble. Which will end. In three... two... one." He raises an eyebrow because the last thing he expects is for such a suave thief to be so awkward, and she crosses her arms, eyes narrowing. "What, because I made a pass at you like just another girl wanting in your bed, I'm supposed to be mysterious all the time? I may be able to _pretend_ to be just like every girl out there, but that doesn't mean my hands aren't shaking the entire time. I'm more than just a pretty face, you know."

"My watch, please," he reminds her, deciding to bypass that entire speech. She rolls her eyes, before her hand trails into the top of the bodice of her dress, luring Oliver's eyes to places he probably shouldn't be looking. She produces the watch from its hiding place before grabbing his arm and rolling it back onto his wrist, and he tries not to focus on why it feels so warm. "If you're not trying to be mysterious," he says, surprised to find his smile genuine, "can I have a name?"

She pulls him closer, her hand wrapping around his neck as she says, "Felicity Smoak." He can feel her breath against the shell of his ear. "And that's all you're getting out of me tonight," she continues, "because your friend is heading our way, and I'm _not_ going to be forever remembered as one of your one-night stands." She flashes him a mischievous smile. "But I won't tarnish your reputation, either, casanova." She touches an emerald green fingernail to his nose, and he knows that the rest of the world probably sees her as flirting with him, and that's _exactly_ what she's going for. "Just remember, it's all an act."

Before he can do more than take a breath in preparation of asking her what she means, her hands follow the curve of his shoulders. Abruptly, she curls her fingers under the lapels of his suit coat, using them as leverage to pull herself up on the toes of her heels, and her mouth lands on his. His hands fall on her hips as he kisses her, and there's nothing sweet about it. It's rough and wild—just exactly as anyone would expect to see against the wall in a club like this. Her hands wrap around his neck, running down his shoulders and to his chest. They slide under his jacket, and suddenly old instincts kick in.

He pushes her further into the wall and one hand slides from her hip, trailing down the slit in her skirt. Just before he reaches her knee, he smiles into the kiss before grabbing her lower thigh and locking it over his hip. She gasps into his mouth, and he smiles in triumph as he's able to surprise _her_, for a change. She pulls back suddenly, chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath, just as a hand touches his shoulder. One glance over his shoulder informs him that Tommy has joined them.

Oliver can't resist a parting shot. "That was an _act?_" he asks in a whisper, just over her ear. He expects a biting reply of some sort, but he's pleasantly surprised to find her blushing a nice shade of scarlet. It's a side of her he's surprised to find; after all, she flirted with him and started that particularly amazing kiss. Blushing just seems too _demure_ for the attitude she's displayed so far, but instead of being bored by it, she only draws him in further.

"I was going to ask if you were having a good time," Tommy yells over the music, "but I don't think you have to answer now." He offers Oliver the smirk that compliments his choice for the night, but, for some reason, Oliver doesn't particularly like it. Felicity isn't just another woman, just another notch on his bedpost. She's different, and—because _he's_ different—he finds himself wanting to understand the most intriguing woman he's ever met in his life. Tommy nudges his shoulder. "I thought you preferred brunettes," he teases.

Felicity's expression makes his insides squirm, knowing and secretive at the same time. She presses herself against Oliver's side before replying in that sultry tone from before, "I'm trying to convince him that blondes are more fun." Now that he know it's an act, the smile he gives Tommy is forced. This version of Felicity may be everything he's familiar with, but it's boring now that he knows there's an entirely different girl underneath—one more fascinating than this persona she wears.

"She's been trying to convince me to go back to her place," Oliver supplies, "but I told her I'm not ready to leave just yet." He looks down at her. "Sorry, sweetheart," he says, the fake endearment sour in his mouth, "but I'm going to pass tonight. I'm not nearly as charming tonight." He winks at her. "I haven't had anyone flirt with in five years."

"Well, you have my number," she purrs before trailing a fingernail down the line of his jaw, and he has to remind himself it's just an act. "Call me."

With that, she leaves them, leaving both men to watch as she disappears into the crowd. Tommy claps a hand on Oliver's shoulder. "Nice catch," he comments, but then qualifies it with, "for the first one in five years. But we both know you can find better with a little practice. Good call to ditch her." Oliver tries not to prickle at the statement, wondering if he'll ever see her again. Their interaction didn't last nearly as long as he'd have liked, and he still hasn't answered the question of why she steals.

Later that night, when he returns to the Vigilante base of operations to hood up, he finds his wallet is missing and his phone has the number of one Felicity Smoak programmed in it.

* * *

Oliver doesn't call because he doesn't know what to say. Nothing seems appropriate, and so he leaves her number alone for several weeks, until he forgets about it. He never forgets her, of course, but he figures she's better off without a train wreck like him in her life. Not to mention, he has no idea to get over the awkwardness from their fake kiss.

But it's the last thing on his mind as he prepares to break into Cyrus Vanch's house to save Laurel, his ex-girlfriend. In the past five years, she's started a relationship with Tommy, and Oliver just can't let something happen to her. It isn't romantic between the two of them anymore, but he's not going to let her die for him. So John Diggle, his partner in the Vigilante business, follows him in with a sniper rifle, while Oliver opts for his bow and arrows. Detective Lance brought them the case, and Oliver knows he's standing by for the arrest.

It's a war zone, plain and simple. The property is heavily guarded by mercenaries with machine guns, and Oliver knows he should have taken more time to think this one through. Arrows fly, guns fire, but there just doesn't seem to be an end to the violence. He fires an arrow at a particularly small target, but the intended target somehow manages to dodge it. Then he realizes that blonde hair and black mask are distinct and familiar. She's dressed all in black, her wearing the traditional black turtleneck and black gloves of a cat burglar. But her pants are most certainly not standard issue, judging by the way they cling.

He calls into Digg on the comm. "Left corner, balcony—the girl. She's one of ours," he informs his friend before firing a rappelling arrow into the roof to catch her.

"Oliver," Digg answers over the comm, "how do you know this girl?" But Oliver doesn't answer because he's too focused on her. Maybe he could make things better if he met her as someone else this time—start fresh since he botched things as Oliver Queen.

He slips into the balcony, and he has to dodge a particularly sharp throwing knife. Even still, it nearly catches his ear, and he's not thrilled with this new addition of weaponry. He clicks on the voice synthesizer before saying, "I'm not here to hurt you, Felicity." He calls it into the dark room, and, in her black clothing, she seems to blend into her surroundings.

"Yeah, well," she calls back, from everywhere and nowhere, "pardon me if I don't take your word for it. You nearly nicked me with that arrow. And, well, I've never really understood that whole forgive and forget thing."

He sighs. "I thought you were more muscle," he explains tersely. "I took a shot at you, you took a shot at me. We're even."

It coaxes her out, and she seemingly steps out of thin air into the room. She has another knife ready, tossing it around lazily in her hand. "How do you know my name?" she demands.

He sighs because it's not a good idea to answer aloud, in case anyone is around. "Because you know mine," he says simply, before unzipping his jacket slightly to pull out his phone. He dials the one number he's never called before and holds his breath.

Her phone buzzes, and the light of the screen illuminates the room enough for him to see her eyes widen in surprise as the number comes up. She may not recognize the caller, but she's probably realizing that his is the only number she's given without getting one in return.

She tucks her phone back into her back pocket before crossing her arms and frowning, that fuchsia-painted mouth falling into a pout. "You hunt me down, kiss me senseless, and then never call again." She crosses her arms, and he winces because he knows it's coming. "I may not be an expert, but that sounds like mixed signals to me."

He gets it from both sides because Diggle comments in his earpiece, "Your ex is a cat burglar. Why am I not surprised?"

"So is stealing my wallet and programming your number into my phone," he counters with a sigh, ignoring Diggle altogether. "Maybe we could start again?" When she nods, he finally asks, "Why are you breaking into a house before it gets a visit from me?"

She rolls her eyes as she walks up to him, as if it's the dumbest question in the world. "_Because_ it's about to be visited by you," is her answer. "All this muscle, all looking for one showy, arrow-wielding Vigilante. They're so focused that they won't notice one sneaky blonde intruder with a bag full of silver." She holds out a hand, and a string of pearls hangs from it. "And pretty necklaces. I like a good set of pearls. And, more importantly, so does my fence. And a happy fence gives me more cash." She shrugs as she stuffs the necklace into her shirt. "More cash means more money for the children's home."

He quirks an eyebrow, even though he knows she can't see it. "You steal from the rich to give to the poor," he says more than asks, and she chuckles in response before waving a hand toward him.

"Yeah, so we both liked the Robin Hood idea for different reasons," she replies. "I don't steal from anyone who can't afford it, and you don't put arrows in anyone who doesn't try to put a bullet in you first." She taps her forehead thoughtfully. "I think that makes us a team. You're here to save gorgeous Laurel from an army of killers and criminals. I think you need some help."

"I'm not alone," he says after a long moment. Diggle is an integral, important part of what makes the Vigilante who he is. It's not just Oliver that gives a voice to the Vigilante; Diggle is the heart and soul of what Oliver does every night. Loath as he is to admit it, Oliver knows it's Diggle who keeps him from screwing up this run, from making some sort of life-ending or freedom-ending mistake that makes the Vigilante an interesting story instead of an urban legend.

"Maybe not," Felicity replies, picking at an invisible thread on her shirt, "but you could use an extra hand. You're a brute." He bristles, but she holds up her hands. "I don't mean that in a bad way. You're big, you're loud, and you're the opposite of subtle. But you know it, so you announce your presence with arrows." She points to herself. "But me, I'm not a brute. I can't compete physically with anyone out there, but I know that. So I sneak, I slip, and I blend. And I use quiet weapons that keep me either far away"—she motions behind him, and he turns to see the throwing knife in the wall behind him—"or requires me to be quick." She smiles as she holds up an arrow—one from his quiver, the tip pristine because it hasn't yet been used. Somehow, she managed to steal it right out of his quiver. "And I am. That's something that you could use to your advantage on this team."

"Consider it a tryout," he says finally as he takes the arrow from her, understanding the truth of her words. He and Diggle aren't fast enough or quiet enough to do what she does, and her skills are assets they can't accomplish on their own. Sighing, he hands her one of the comms from his pocket. "Take this so we can communicate."

She snatches it from his hand with the light fingers of a practiced pickpocket, then examines it before putting it in her ear. "Hello, Team Arrow," she says cheerfully, and Oliver hears it in dual tones, through the comm and in person. "Anyone home?"

"Are you sure about this?" Diggle asks Oliver through the line, and Oliver holds back a groan. Diggle is quick to observe, meaning that he already has an opinion about Felicity. "Because I don't want this girl getting hurt because _you_ can't say no."

She says into the line with attitude, "I spent most of my teenage years on the streets in the Glades." Oliver starts at the new information; Felicity doesn't talk or move like the homeless, uneducated, or drug-addicted masses he's seen on the street. But of course she would be the exception—it seems she always is. "I learned a lot about a lot of things. And you need me, so you're not in a position to argue."

Oliver frowns, hoping the two of them will work out their issues. Before he can add his voice to the fray, Felicity reaches behind him to pull her throwing knife from the wall, with a simple, "We need to go." She waits expectantly for Oliver, as if gauging his reaction. There's a bit of defiance in her eyes, as if daring him to say she needs to go elsewhere.

"Stay behind me," he says simply, then barges through the bedroom door. She may be as tough as him, but some deep, long-buried instinct demands he keep her safe. He honestly doesn't know why; she's drifted along the edges of his life over the past five years, and it's not as if she's anything deeply important to him. But yet he can't let her go. He decides to try all of the rooms, just to be sure it's not a trick, and finds the next room locked. He frowns as he jiggles the handle, wondering if he should just try and break it.

A black-gloved hand falls on his. "Easy there," she says softly. "If you break the handle off, it won't do me any good." She hikes her shirt up to expose a fair amount of pale skin and a black, zip-up kit. "Rule number one," she mutters as she opens it and pulls out a dark pick of some kind, "nothing is ever _truly_ locked." The pin clicks, and the door opens. "And, by the way, I can handle myself." Oliver checks the door, but it's completely empty.

They do the same with every room on the upper floor. Felicity picks locks like an expert, and then they go in together. Occasionally, she'll see something worth stealing, and she'll hide it in various places on her person that he decides not to dwell on. She manages a few nice pieces of jewelry, and, though Oliver doesn't like the idea of her taking things, he allows it because Cyrus Vanch isn't a good guy. That and the fact it goes to a children's home, so he can't really complain _too_ much. At least it doesn't go to her clothing fund or anything like that.

Then they descend the stairs, and Oliver decides it's time for the two to split up, and she disappears into the darkness and the shadows, clinging to them with practiced ease. It's better for both of them that way; if she gets in trouble, he knows he can distract them long enough to get her out of harm's way. He's careful as he turns the corner into the kitchen and dining area, but he's pleased to see Vanch there with Laurel.

She looks no worse for the wear, scared and shaking, but still with defiance in her eyes, despite the tracks of mascara running down her face. Ropes bind her to the chair, and there's a gag over her mouth. It lights Oliver's blood on fire, and he's going to stop Vanch if it's the last thing he does. Before he can put the plan into reality, though, he can hear the sound of a pump-action shotgun behind him, and then he can feel the barrels press against his back.

With a delighted chuckle, Vance taunts him with, "Drop the bow, Merida." He says it as though it's an easily recognized reference, as though it's something that should offend Oliver, but, well, he doesn't understand it.

In the comm link, Felicity groans. "Someone needs to tell this guy," she mutters, mostly to herself, "that if he's going to be an evil gangster-type guy, he really needs to lay off the Disney movies. Bad for his image. I really hope that silver ashtray I found was his, and that it cost him a pretty penny." To Digg, she asks, "What do you say? Should I go save our boy now? Because I don't want a bullet in those abs. I've felt them before, and, let me tell you, they're absolutely perfect the way they are."

Oliver tries to stop the arrogant smirk that twists his mouth up at her words, but fails miserably. In the meantime, Diggle responds, "I don't have eyes on Lance, and the target is in the shadow. Felicity, this one's up to you."

"Roger that," she responds cheerily. Oliver can only hear her on his comm, so he knows she' isn't in range. That's not good because that probably means she's on the other side of the building. It's not a comforting thought, Oliver decides, when he has a shotgun aimed at him.

"Ventilate him," Vanch commands, but before the gun can fire, Oliver hears the distinct sound of a knife flying end over end across the distance. He isn't sure where it strikes, but the groan lets him know that it struck home somewhere in the man with the gun.

At about the same time, Detective Lance charges in from the opposite direction as Oliver aims an arrow at the last remaining guard. Somewhere in the background of his focus, he can hear Lance yelling in the background. Oliver releases the draw on the bow, and turns to see Lance aiming his gun at an unarmed Vanch, clearly intent on firing. Oliver manages an arrow so that he can stop him, but a throwing knife knocks the gun out of Lance's hand.

Lance's attention immediately turns to Felicity, who stands with a hand on her hip, another knife ready in her right hand. "He's the vigilante," she says firmly, her voice back in those provocative, low tones Oliver recognizes as her conning voice. "I'm the thief. But _you're_ the cop." She twirls the knife casually, her other hand on her hip. "While I'm usually a fan of spicing things up, let's stick to our given roles tonight, shall we?"

Lance stops, looks at her with squinted eyes, and Oliver has to smother a chuckle. He knows that expression—he's sure it's been on his own face a time or two. Felicity draws out that sort of reaction from people, and Oliver doubts if _anyone_ is an exception. Finally, Lance replies with a growl, "That doesn't mean I have to read the bastard his rights." He throws an impressive right hook, and Vanch goes down.

Felicity moves over to Laurel, cutting the ropes and the gag, eyeing her handiwork with satisfaction as Laurel rubs at her wrists. "Mission complete," Felicity says smugly, then turns and walks past Laurel as though she's just a target and it was all just business. But Oliver thinks that "simply business" ended when she kissed him the last time. That might have been many things, but "simply business" was never a part of it.

Laurel rises from her chair, eyes still smeared with faint traces of mascara. Long ago, it would have made Oliver run to her, comfort her, try to make her feel safe once again, but now it just leaves him cold. Because Laurel isn't his now, and there isn't any need to go through the motions. Laurel is _Tommy's_ girl, and she will never be Oliver's again. He thought that would upset him, but he feels an overwhelming sense of nothing about the entire ordeal. "Who _are_ you?" Laurel calls to Felicity, but Oliver can't stop a chuckle. It's a mystery they will probably never solve.

Lance reaches his daughter, and he's the one to comfort her, all the while growling at Oliver, "Thank you. Now get out of here before I change my mind and arrest you and your girlfriend.

Felicity ignores them both, walking toward Oliver. "I'm not his girlfriend," she corrects firmly, and the teasing smile on her face makes him tense. He knows that look, and it's never good. "Next time, before you imply anything, consider two facts: one, he prefers brunettes, and two, I am so out of his league that we're not even playing the same sport." Both things may be true, but, under different circumstances, Oliver would point out that she was a brunette when they first met, and that counts. But he stays quiet instead.

She doesn't stop walking until her face separated from his by mere inches. Oliver can feel the thick tension rising, but if she notices, it doesn't show. "It's been real," she says with a smile, "but I don't stay in the open. So I'm going to make like a shepherd and get the flock out of here." She pats his shoulder, her hand sliding down the length of his arm as she walks around him, making her way to the door. Over her shoulder, she adds, "I suggest you do the same." She waves, never looking back. "Let's do this again sometime. Call me when you get a new case." She disappears into a shadow in the house, melding right into the darkness, and Oliver wonders why he watches her leave.

After all, there's no reason why he can't go after her.

* * *

Felicity Smoak finds herself in the woods outside the mansion, and she thinks it's probably the best place for her to be right now: vastly separated from the rest of the world. She knows she'd put a knife through someone if she wasn't alone. She's an idiot, a hopeless, idealistic idiot. Of _course_ this is how it was going to turn out, though; this is _exactly_ why her fence and best friend, Roy, warned her against getting involved with Oliver Queen.

Because, whether he realizes it or not, he uses women. He toys with them, lures them in with that taunting smile and charming façade. She's thinks she's been in love with the idea of him for the past five years, ever since he caught her, starved and desperate, breaking in to find something of value to sell for food and shelter. He was remarkably generous to his would-be thief, and she thought that maybe, under that exterior of the spoiled rich boy, he was honestly a decent person. And she was young and not so cynical and jaded about the world in general, so she believed in the lie she told herself every night.

But that was the _idea_ of Oliver Queen. When she met him six months ago in that club and stole his watch, she was almost flattered by his attention, that he caught her amazing pull that night. So she taunted him, flirted with him, _kissed_ him, and then Tommy Merlyn had interrupted the scene. And, when she'd programmed in that number, she'd expected him to call her, if only because he seemed to enjoy the mystery of it all. But then he hadn't called, and she realized the truth of Oliver: he doesn't _mean_ to use women. He doesn't mean to lure them in with smiles and charm, but he does. And then he gets bored of them, and, somewhere in that time period, a woman realizes she means absolutely _nothing_ to him.

Tonight had been a particular brand of surprise, though, because she hadn't meant to meet him here. The Vigilante was making an appearance, and, in her experience, high-priced lawyers and wanna-be mobsters both have very nice things. She thought it would be an opportunity, since security would be too focused on the Vigilante to notice a common thief (though she's anything _but_ common) sneaking through the upper floor. But then he'd caught up to her and revealed himself. She felt stupid—of _course_ it was him. Who _else_ would run after gorgeous Laurel like a tramp after a free meal? That story was always going to end as Oliver and Laurel, and she was a fool for believing otherwise. She thinks she'll chalk this one up to the folly of youth and move on with her life.

Felicity doesn't blame him. She blames herself for thinking she'd be the exception and not the rule.

She's so involved in her thoughts that she almost doesn't notice the feeling—that marvelous sixth sense that all women share in the ability to discern danger. On instinct, she turns, and she's surprised to find the most frustrating man in the history of the world standing behind her, in all of his green-hooded glory. "I thought you'd be comforting your girlfriend after her near-death experience," is her greeting. She tries to come off as flippant, but it falls short. At least she doesn't sound bitter—or worse, _jealous_. Jealousy is reserved for the wives of adulterous husbands and ex-girlfriends, and she's certainly neither of those to Oliver Queen.

"She isn't my girlfriend," he corrects, and now the synthesizer is switched off, so she can hear the irritation in his tone. His hood is pulled back already because they have absolutely no reason to hide from one another now. It's the same reason why she doesn't use her temptress act on him. He knows her name, she knows his, and somehow they've managed to build some sort of trust in three encounters. "Laurel and I have been over for a very long time." He gives her a look she can't quite decipher, and if she tries, she thinks it might just be the end of her.

"Well, that's fair," she says finally, unsure of what he's wanting. "After all, you did sleep with her sister. Who died. On the boat. When you were sleeping with her." She winces at her own words. "And it's good to know that my mouth will always be able to get the better of me. Sorry about that."

He steps closer, but he doesn't look angered by her crippling foot-in-mouth disease. "It had nothing to do with Sara," he finally corrects her. "Sara was just a convenient excuse to end our relationship." He hesitates. "It was because we were completely different people. Even when we were together, it was more because we didn't want to be alone. She never loved me, and I never loved her."

He takes a long breath. "When Vanch took her tonight," he starts slowly, "he took her because he wanted to lure me in, to taunt me. He wanted me to realize that, even though he had no idea who I am, he can still hurt me by taking the people I love." She waits for the rest of it, but it doesn't come, and she realizes that's all he's going to say.

"I feel like you were making a point, Oliver," she says gently, but still with a teasing tone, "but you fell a little short." She crosses her arms. Care to try again?"

He sighs and gives her a long-suffering look, as though this entire situation is _her_ fault. She wasn't the one who wanted to get all emotional tonight, thank you. Well, at least not in words; Felicity is better at stewing mentally because her mind doesn't betray her like her mouth does. "My point is," he almost whispers, his expression turning unreadable, "he took the wrong woman."

Felicity scoffs. "Well, _clearly_," she retorts with sarcasm dripping from her words. "After all, you just said you and Laurel have been over for ages." She can't help but tease him. "So, who's the lucky girl who managed to steal Oliver Queen's womanizing heart?"

She waits for a response, but it never comes. Silence stretches on for seconds, then several heartbeats, as he refuses to answer the question. She doesn't understand where it comes from, since he was so casual as to chat with her about it a moment ago. But suddenly she asks the question and everything changes, almost as if— "_Oh_," she breathes as it dawns on her, and she blinks repeatedly. It has to be a prank, there has to be a camera standing by somewhere, and it all just has to be faked for posterity. There's no way it can be real.

_Can it?_

"Do you understand?" he asks slowly, and it's all she can do to nod. The whole thing is ridiculous—there's no way it can last, no possible reason for it to work out between them. They're from two different worlds, and they don't know the first thing about one another. They're going to crash and burn, and then it's going to tear her apart because somehow, Oliver Queen has managed to become a huge part of her world after only three encounters. But still he's pulling off her mask, looking at her for the very first time, and his thumb rubs against her cheek as he cups it. And Felicity has never thought of a more horrible idea in her life. They're not going to make this work, and she's never going to be able to work or steal without thinking of him and she just can't—

All of her doubts wash away when he kisses her. This time, it isn't a ruse, and it's certainly not for an audience. This time, when they kiss, it's _real_. It isn't as fiery or intense as the last one, but it doesn't need to be. There's no unresolved tension, no wild thrill from doing something that she really shouldn't be doing. This time, it's just as natural as breathing, and every moment of it is pure magic.

"We'll have to find another time in our lives to meet," he finally manages to respond between breaths when they pull apart, "or I'll never get anything done as the Vigilante." There's triumph in his eyes, and Felicity finds it more than a little dangerous. It makes her feel like doing, saying, _agreeing_ to anything. And that should make him feel dangerous, too, because this much excitement should come with a _lot_ more inhibition than either one of them have.

She laughs. "Go see your mom at work sometime," she replies easily, and she can't help but smile as his eyebrows knit together in confusion. She takes pity on him and clarifies, "I work at Queen Consolidated. I'm in the IT department—eighteenth floor." With a chuckle, she adds, "I've been right there under your nose the entire time, Oliver. You just haven't been looking." Before he can respond, she decides to pull away. After all, Roy will be waiting on her report about the job, and she can't really spend the entire night running around with him, no matter how much she'd like to. "Call me sometime, and we'll either take down bad guys together or actually go on a date," she calls over her shoulder, walking away.

A few steps later, she stops before pulling something important out of her pocket and throwing it at him. "By the way, this is yours. I think you lost it."

He catches the wallet easily, holding it up as he smiles. "Thank you," he says, and she's not sure if he's thanking her for returning it or for stealing it and starting this adventure all over again. She doesn't say anything, only gives him a salute and a smile before continuing on her path. She moves slowly, though, waiting for him to realize it.

She bites her lip to smother out a laugh when he calls through the trees and the darkness, "You know there's three hundred dollars missing from my wallet, right?"

"It's a finder's fee," she retorts across the distance, "and _you're welcome_." She can hear him chuckle, and she thinks they're both insane idiots for doing this dance around one another. This time she picks up speed, nearly running as she travels the distance back to her car.

After all, he's going to be _pissed_ when he realizes she's stolen his voice synthesizer.

* * *

_Music is more dance-inspired because of the club scene, but here's the playlist:_

_"Spotlight" - Patrick Stump_  
_"Naughty Naughty" - Porcelain Black_  
_"Modern Love" - David Bowie_  
_"Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)" - Eurythmics_  
_"Slow Down" - Selena Gomez_  
_"Take Me Home" - Cher_  
_"Come On Girl" - Taio Cruz feat. Luciana Caporaso_  
_"Shut Me Up" - Mindless Self Indulgence_  
_"Oh My!" - Haley Reinhart feat. B.o.B._  
_"About a Girl" - The Academy Is..._  
_"My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark" - Fall Out Boy_


End file.
